


To Grandma's House We Go

by DariaBrooksBooks



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DariaBrooksBooks/pseuds/DariaBrooksBooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff takes his young sons on a car trip to visit Grandma for Thanksgiving weekend and the journey presents the Tracy family with one of their earliest rescue scenarios. This retro-tale is based on 'classic' Thunderbirds but fits within the context of the 2015 version as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Grandma's House We Go

TO GRANDMA'S HOUSE WE GO

by Daria

 

[Disclaimer: All Thunderbirds characters are the property of ITV Ventures; all rights reserved. This work of fiction is solely for non-profit entertainment. Please do not republish this work without notice to and permission from the author.]

 

"Come on, boys: Let's get a move on!" I beckon the brothers Tracy to the family van, knowing all the while that it won't make them move a jot any faster. "We should have been on the road by now!"

 

Five of them...all boys. What could I have been thinking...? Lucy and I must have been mad, but then no one could blame us for being a bit more than amorous after our many long months apart every year. For the better part of a decade, I spent many of those months building structures on the Moon, my loyal wife left so far below on Earth to manage our family. No loving couple should be forced apart for so long and so often, so whenever I got my leave...we made up for lost time. Now you'd think I would have gotten one sweet, charming daughter out of all of that effort. Instead, I got five boisterous, wild, loud, silly, argumentative, head-strong, wacky..."Boys!"

 

"We're coming, Dad," calls Scott, at 17 my eldest, as he dutifully helps the younger boys with their sleeping bags. He's always been a good child and the one that I can trust to help me keep things together around here. Much like the next in line, 14 year old Virgil, Scott is dependable, caring and, sadly, forceably mature beyond his years for having to help his widower dad to raise this houseful of little men.

 

"Blame Alan, Dad," my ginger-headed terror, Gordon, calls out, kicking a soccer ball as he walks from the house. With his napsack on his head, an apple in hand and a brain full of mischief, he is not looking where he is going, as usual. "He lost his shoes...again. Virgil found 'em—in two different rooms, of course!"

 

With a kick, he adds his knapsack to the pile in the second row of the van. "He shoots, he scores and the crowd goes wild! Yeaaaaaaaaaaaa! That's Olympic champion Gordon Tracy, folks! Remember that name: You'll be seeing a lot of it!"

 

"Yeah—on wanted posters!" Alan, being right behind him, was a few seconds later on the draw than I'd have expected. "Shut up, Gordo!"

 

"Don't tell your brother to 'shut up,' Alan," I admonish him, knowing in my heart that it is futile.

 

"Sorry, Father," he replies in sing-song, childlike contrition, quietly adding the part I wasn't meant to hear, "I'll get you LATER!"

 

Five of 'em. *sigh* What on Earth were we thinking, Lucy, dear...?

 

"Are we all here now?" I ask with a tone of finality, looking around for a head count. "Scott?"

 

"I'm putting stuff in the trunk, Dad," comes his reassuring voice.

 

"Virgil?"

 

"Me too, Dad."

 

No need to look for the two little ones, since they're fighting right in front of me. A hand on either head pushes them far enough apart to keep apart the swinging arms, not that they have noticed yet. "Gordon, get in and strap on your seatbelt before I reach for MY belt!"

 

Eventually, my 'no more nonsense' tone gets his attention; his shoulders heave dejectedly as he follows my orders. Taking Alan, our 'baby,' by the hand, I guide him to the middle row of seats and prepare to strap him in.

 

"I'm not a baby and I wanna sit up front with you, Dad!" he screams, pouting with a frown that could stop an eight-day clock. Well, granted, at the age of 9, I suppose he's really not that small any more. Still, he's safer sitting behind me, no matter how much I know I'll come to regret it.

 

"Like it or not, you sit back here with Gordon. Now get in and don't let me hear another word of it." With a fierce look that belies his more angelic qualities, Alan scrambles into his seat, sneering at the giggling Gordon next to him.

 

"You make me SICK," he shouts, folding his arms in a snit.

 

"Hey, Dad," Gordon calls out, "We'll have to take Alan to the hospital first; he's too sick to go to Grandma's house!"

 

"I am NOT!" cries Alan, but one 'don't let me come back there' look from me puts an end to it all, for the time being anyway. Now where was I...?

 

Wait a minute...one, two here...three and four are back there...

 

"John?"

 

Silence. Why am I not surprised? That kid is just the opposite of the two younger ones: TOO quiet, if a kid can actually be such. I can be in the house with John all day and not hear a peep from him, as long as he hasn't been lured into some mischief with his brothers. He usually would not think to start trouble, but he can be a great 'joiner-inner,' especially when razzed about letting the side down by the other four. Somehow, as unnervingly dour as my middle son can sometimes be, I'm largely tempted not to try to alter his behavior. A little peace and quiet is hard to find when you're a single father.

 

"John? Get out here! We are late leaving for your Grandma's as it is!" Where IS that boy?

 

Scott closes the trunk and walks over to assist with belting in Alan, stopping to look around. "John is checking the faucets, the house alarm and the lights. Oh...here he comes."

 

Slowly but surely, the fair-haired John is the last to leave the house, noisily dragging his sleeping bag and backpack along the ground behind him. His baggy varsity sweater—a hand-me-down from Scott—hangs off of one shoulder; his shoelaces are untied, his head buried in a comic book and ears muffled by his music player's headphones.

 

Heaven knows I've tried to encourage our aloof John to be more neat, but, in these rebellious, existentialist-driven preteen days of his, he refuses to shop for clothing, determined that it doesn't matter what he looks like. Trying to get him to go for a haircut is equivalent to the act of dragging the condemned into the death chamber kicking and screaming, and for all the good of it he may as well have just stuck his finger in a light socket.

 

Fathering an introverted genius like John has been an odd experience compared to my elder two. Whenever my order of 'John, get a hair cut' has been uttered as of late, it has inevitably been answered by 'It'll only grow back, Father...and someday it'll all fall out and it won't have mattered that I ever cut it.' Noting that as being conceivable, I have reminded him that neither Camus nor Sartre would argue against me being able to actually see my son's eyes once in a while. Out of concern for his social development, I have appealed to his popular older brothers to speak to John about taking pride in his appearance in the manner that they do, but, alas, he is determined to spend his 'wonder years' with a book in hand, a furrowed brow, a lack of social attachments and his head in the clouds.

 

"Nice of you to join us today, John," I needle him, not really expecting a reply; I know this boy too well for that. He stops chewing gum long enough to blow a medium-sized bubble, then pops it for effect, allowing it to function as his response.

 

"No gum in the car, John," I remind him. "You know better than that, young man. Go toss it out—and hurry up! It's time to get going. We've a long drive ahead of us!"

 

With the speed of a snail and without missing a beat of his superhero saga, John is off to the trashcans on the side of the house, dutifully tossing out the gum. As he returns to the van, I am justly pleased with myself that I have once again managed to assemble my tribe without too much trouble. Glumly, John surveys the available places remaining, soon resigning himself to a fate worse than life without comic books: having to sit up front with dear old dad. With a heavy sigh, he drops his shoulders and his gear, his bags landing on the floor in a heap, his feet then landing atop them once he's plopped his just-a-bit-too-lean body in the seat.

 

"Put those bags in the back…" I nearly shout the order but manage to keep it civil. I know immediately that making 'Ol' Speedy' rearrange his space will delay our departure for another hour!

 

"Got 'em, Dad!" the intrepid Scott intercepts as he takes John's things to the back.

 

"Thanks, son," I reply with a relieved smile. "Is that everything now?"

 

The boys look around at me, then the van, then at me again, while at the same time, I check them out: Seatbelts fastened, clean faces...mostly, clean hands, I hope. I would love to do something about John's messy hair, but you have to pick your battles in my position and it is just not that kind of a morning. Besides, I don't think his grandmother would recognize him if he didn't look like an unkempt Newfoundland hound. One, two, three, four...wait a darn minute: Another one is missing!

 

A loud 'Virgil!' shouted in the direction of the neighbor's lawn and I have alerted the heartsick young Abigail that it is indeed time to let go of her 'Virgie's' hand. Once our talented, handsome and popular high school football star heartthrob bounds across the box hedges and into the van, that about wraps it up.

 

"All right, boys: We're off!"

 

"Wait..." I hear a little voice behind me just as I turn the key in the ignition.

 

"Alan? What's wrong?" I check on him, wincing as I fight against my seatbelt restraint.

 

"I've gotta GO."

 

Thankfully, Scott speaks up just as I am about to lose it all. "S'ok, Dad—I'll take him."

 

"Thanks, Scott," I call out to him. "Anyone else? It's now or never!"

 

Gordon and Virgil shake their heads while John hasn't heard a word out of anyone since he arrived on the scene. A sudden thought comes to mind and I shout after Scott. "Don't forget about the..."

 

Too late. The alarm bell rings loudly, alerting anyone within ear-shot that the Tracys are about to leave on vacation.

 

"Sorry, Dad!" Scott calls back to me. "Alan forgot!" His announcement is quickly followed by Alan's response: "Tattle-tale!" Sigh.

 

Minutes later, Alan is buckled in again, the security company has been apologized to and the alarm reset. We are on our way. Finally.

 

As much as I love this annual week-long visit with my mother for Thanksgiving, I dread this drive equally. The I-5 is no joy at any time of year, but the holiday week traffic is a nightmare to behold, especially once entering Los Angeles County. Fortunately, between Vandenberg Air Force base—where I am currently based while completing a military construction project—and the desert oasis of Palm Grove out beyond the Parola Sands Raceway, exists the lush, green farmland communities of the inland valleys...and miles and miles of oldies radio tunes. Punctuating my peaceful musings and the humming of a tune or two, I am treated to the normal banter any parent of young children is apt to hear...the sort of blathering that often makes one wonder why chloroform is not readily available in vending machines:

 

"Are we there yet?"

 

"No, Alan; we still have a ways to go. Color in your book."

 

"I can't. Gordon took my blue crayon."

 

"There are 52 crayons in the box. Pick another."

 

"Don't blame me if the sky is red!"

 

 

"Dad! John looked at me funny!"

 

Peripheral vision notwithstanding, I didn't really notice anything more than a narrow side glance in Gordon's general direction. "John didn't do anything to you, Gordon."

 

Not content, he balks at my even-handed approach. "Yes he did, Dad—you just weren't looking at him!"

 

"If you weren't looking at him, you'd never notice whether or not he's looking at you," I patiently advise him. "John is reading a book; why don't you do the same."

 

"He did it again!"

 

Traffic is beginning to slow, just as my temper begins to rise. "Don't make me come back there, Gordon."

 

Alan, not content to allow Gordon to be the only one bucking for a spanking, adds, "Can you REALLY drive and be in the back seat, Father?" One look in the rear-view mirror is all it takes for my youngest son to get the message that I am a man with little patience left to try.

 

Then, from the back row, I hear Virgil's voice rise in protest. "Hey! That's not fair! Give over!"

 

"You don't get your money back, Virg. That's not how Three Card Monte works. Double or nothing?"

 

"Hmm...ok...let me try this again...!

 

Before I have a chance to insert myself into that illicit game of chance, I am stilled by yet another protest from Alan.

 

"Quit it, Gordon!"

 

"YOU quit it!"

 

"I mean it, Gordo!"

 

"I _mean_ it! I _mean_ it! You big crybaby!"

 

"I know you are, but what am I?"

 

Before I have a chance to quell this latest exchange, John, so far the silent member of the squad, jumps into the fray. "Father, can't you do something about your ghastly children? I am _trying_ to _read_!"

 

Having foolishly handed his younger brother a straight line he could hardly resist, John cringes at Gordon's return, "How's my shutting up going to teach you to read?"

 

Chiming in, Alan adds, "You read with your eyes, not with your ears! Haaaaaa!"

 

Having had just about enough, I decide that it is time to try for some cooperation from the elder child in this melee. "Try to show you are more grown up than they are, John. That will settle them down."

 

My third son glumly blinks at me. "Sure thing, Dad," he mutters. "I forgot to bring the ether...but I've got my Swiss Army knife and I know how to use it. The redheaded dweeb goes first."

 

Gordon hisses at him, swinging a baby-fat fist in his direction. "I'd like to see you try it!"

 

So much for appealing for diplomacy. "Boys! That's enough!" I shout to get their attention. "I want silence! You are missing out on a great deal of beautiful scenery. Just be quiet and enjoy the view. Or ELSE!"

 

"Do the Swiss even have an army, Father?" Virgil projects from the back of the van, more rhetorically than anything.

 

Before I can hazard a response, Scott jumps in to assure his brother, stating very matter-of-factly, "Sure they do, Virg—they're those guys in those goofy, mix-matched comic opera costumes who protect the Pope."

 

Virgil frowns at him dismissively. "No, those are the Swiss Guard, Scott. They started out as Renaissance varlets and mercenaries. And Michelangelo designed those uniforms; they are NOT 'goofy.' You obviously have no appreciation for high art."

 

Staring at his younger brother, Scott seems rather surprised at Virgil's response. "So...what does a Renaissance varlet do: tag castle walls with 'di Medici was here?' or 'Raphael rules; Michelangelo drools?'" Thinking himself rather clever, my eldest son laughs out loud, entertaining himself more than anyone else.

 

I must say that I am rather please at the subject matter they've chosen to argue about back there. At least I know that they are paying attention in their history classes. However, Virgil isn't having it.

 

"You're thinking of a vandal, not a varlet, Scott," he chides his elder brother. "They are two totally different things. Totally. So...shut up and deal already!"

 

Despite the humor of the elder boys going completely over their heads, Alan and Gordon cannot resist getting involved now. "Ooooo, Scott," Gordon chides him at Alan's urging, "Virgil told you to shut up. You're not going to take that off him, are ya?"

 

"Errrr....Gordon?" I interject, "Have you forgotten what I have already told you several times today?"

A pair of deer-in-the-headlights hazel eyes in the mirror and a hushed "No, Dad," demonstrates that Gordon only needed the slightest of reminders to put him in check this time, but, as always, he's pushing his luck and my patience to the limit.

 

Finally quiet for a few happy, restful moments, I return to enjoying the view, once again blissfully listening to the satellite radio music as the scenery passes by. As with most lovely things, the quiet doesn't last very long. Funny how peaceful moments never do when you have kids. Before I have a chance to realize how nice it has been, there's Alan's voice again.

 

"Faaaather! Gordon's looking out of my window!"

 

REST AREA AHEAD: 1/4 MILE. So help me, these brats may not make it that far.

 

A little mist on the highway and people drive ten times worse than they normally do, especially on a steep downgrade such as the one entering the Santa Clarita Valley. Of course, it is not saying much to describe driving in this state as being pretty awful, as driving habits seem to be worsening every day no matter where you go. I check my rear view mirror to evaluate what the boys are up to and then view the outside mirrors to check on what looks like a speeder flashing his lights behind me. I'm usually not impressed nor intimidated by this kind of behavior, but I've precious cargo aboard and am not risking the lives of my Wild Bunch out of any possessive assertion that this lane is mine just because I am in it. Through the California Dew on the mirror, I check for cars in the next lane and carefully move over when clear, just as the car behind me overtakes and passes me.

 

I can't help it—I gaze over to give a look of displeasure to that reckless speedster, certain that my children and I could have been injured if I weren't such an attentive driver. To my astonishment, instead of the young hot-rodder I expect to see, there's instead a middle aged woman at the wheel. She looks to be in a panic—screaming, in fact—and I can see through the moist window that her hands are gripped tightly around the steering wheel. I notice that she's looking at the floor, then the wheel, then the window and back and forth. As she passes us, I can also see the terrified faces of the children in the second seat, too afraid to move or cry out. She wasn't trying to cut me off: Her brakes are gone and the car is free-wheeling down the Interstate at breakneck speed!

 

Having been an Air Force pilot, an astronaut, a business man and the father of five rambunctious boys, I've had to be a man who thinks on his feet—quick and decisive, clever and inventive. I have to have my wits about me even in my sleep. There's only one thing I can do in a case like this: act, and act quickly.

 

"John!" I bellow as I dispense with his earphones with a downward sweep of my hand. Grabbing my cel phone from its holster, I toss it to my now startled flaxen-haired son. "Call 9-1-1! Advise them there is a runaway station wagon going south on the I-5 just above the Pyramid Lake camping exit! License plate XL5J090! Hurry!"

 

While John jumps to attention, I look into the rear view mirror at my other sons, all of them staring out of the windows toward the runaway car. "Boys, make sure you're buckled in tight! I'm going to try to slow down that car!"

 

Their worried faces turn to expressions of shock as all eyes are now fixed upon me.

 

"Father—do you think it will work?" Virgil asks, his face ashen with concern.

 

"It has to work, son; it's just got to," is all I can offer him as a form of reassurance.

 

In the mirror, I can see Scott shake his head in the affirmative. "If anyone can do it, Dad can." With that vote of confidence, we're off on the chase.

 

Seeing a chance to jump lanes to the right to position myself in front of the fast-moving car, I take it by accelerating with a jab at the pedal. This action causes a burst of fuel to punch on all cylinders. Waving to the panicked woman, I speed up just enough to stay a bit ahead of her so that I can slow down without jostling either set of passengers too badly. True, it is a dangerous maneuver, especially with the speed at which we are traveling on the downhill grade, but I have calculated well enough that this should work, provided the driver of the other car understands what it is that I'm trying to do.

 

After a few moments, I can see her wagon getting closer and closer. Seconds later, our van is jarred by the violent bump of her front end against the large rubber cushion on the back of our conveyance. I gradually apply the brakes to slow both vehicles to a safer speed, again reminding the boys to brace themselves. The boys in the back are all turned around, transfixed by the towing motion of the one car against the other and the frightened look on the other driver's face. The back of the van and the front of the wagon eventually knock against each other several times like a couple of high-priced bumper cars, though with eons more riding on our accuracy than the price of a carnival admission ticket.

 

John—the only one of my boys who doesn't seem phased by the proceedings—calmly calls in a detailed report to the Highway Patrol. Being that this area of highway is usually heavily patrolled for downhill speeders, I'm expecting to see a patrol car any minute, John's call to them notwithstanding. All I need is a ticket for trying this reckless act in a car loaded with kids and speeding at the same time. Fortunately, before seeing an officer, I look far enough ahead to lay eyes on the runaway truck lane. Turning slightly to get the attention of the lady in the car behind us, I hand-signal to her to start pulling to the right, pointing to the sign for the emergency lane. Checking in the rear view mirror, I nod as she waves an acknowledgement. My actions seemed to have calmed her considerably.

 

Soon afterward, I'm able to lead the now slowed car off of the highway and onto the dirt runaway lane. Thankfully, there aren't any 16-wheelers in our path or our number would be up. I'm not having an easy time of it trying to slow both cars on the uneven, unpaved lane. Frankly, my biggest fear is that we'll run out of track and have nowhere left to go but into the emergency lane of the freeway. Luckily, the uphill climb at the far end of the trail allows the friction between the two cars to lessen. I can feel the pressure drop as the car behind me comes to a halt, then slides slowly backwards to a stop as the driver throws it into 'PARK.' As I look in the mirror, I can see the relieved woman resting her head on her hands, still tightly wrapped atop the steering wheel.

 

I exit my van to check on her, first checking to see that my boys are all right. Too late: They are all unbuckled and running toward the other car before I even have a chance to ask them. My young men have had to be tough and resilient being raised without their mother...but this is bordering on the ridiculous.

 

Petite, dark and matronly with a kindly face, the lady who was behind the wheel of the other car now stands just outside the driver-side door, her hands folded in prayer. As Scott, first aid kit in hand, runs over to assist her, she throws her arms around him in gratitude. Flustered, he points in my direction as I walk over to join them.

 

"Mister, I don't know what I would have done without you!" she cries through tears, greeting me as she had Scott. "I went to press the brakes...and they were just gone! All I could think of was what would happen to my grandbabies if I couldn't stop the car...and I just couldn't stop it! My goodness, my heart is racing faster than that car was, I tell you!" She holds me at arms' length, searching my face with her moist eyes and then all but collapses. I guess it's finally just gotten to me as well as my knees nearly go weak.

 

"Steady now," I comfort her, patting her on the back soothingly. "It's OK. My name's Tracy...Jeff Tracy. Everything is all right now. How are the children?"

 

My boys have already found out how the children are. Alan and Gordon have just made new friends as the twin nine year old boys from the station wagon have joined them along side the car to kick around their soccer ball. Scott and Virgil, both with their "girl-dar" tuned for maximum high alert, vie for the attention of a lovely teenage girl with glittering dark eyes, her ginger-colored face beaming with relief after such a harrowing ordeal. And John? My quiet little nihilist is tenderly holding an infant with soft brown curls, feeding the baby from a bottle while cooing soothing sounds into her ear. I look around me and I am hit with a sudden sense of relief, knowing that the outcome here could have been so much different. Offering a silent prayer of thanks, I think of my Lucy and how happy she would be if she were here to see this moment in time. Still, I always believe that she is watching over us and interceding on our behalf.

 

As if on cue, two Highway Patrol cars roll upon the scene, stirring up dust and sand as they come to a stop behind our cars. Mrs. Fontaneaux, as she has told me is her name, breaks slowly away from me to greet the officers and tell them about the incident. I nod in their direction and prepare to collect my children. I can see I will have to pry Scott and Virgil away from Mrs. Fontaneaux' granddaughter, Clare, just as it will be difficult to break up the soccer action playing out among the smaller boys. As I contemplate which to attempt first, I am surprised by a tap on my arm.

 

"Look at her, Father!" an excited John whispers, his cornflower-colored eyes glittering as he brings the baby closer to me. "She is so sweet and as good as gold, Father," he says, never taking his eyes off of her. "She didn't even cry when everyone started panicking. Clare said so. And isn't she pretty, Father? She has stars in her eyes." As a tiny hand reaches up to touch his cheek, he kisses her fingertips, softly chirping to her, "You're a good baby! Yes you are! Yes you are! I sure wish I had a little sister like you."

 

Turning away, John pulls his oversized sweater over the infant's head to shield her from the mid-day sun finally poking through the marine layer. All the while, he dandles her softly in the crook of his arm. That boy never ceases to amaze me. I hope that he never will.

 

"All right, boys—break it up," I chide my two eldest boys. "Give this young lady some air. She's been through a lot today!" Smiling at Clare, I can see why the boys are so quickly smitten with her. Tall, slim and elegant in her Sunday best, she has a winning, girlish charm about her that is easy to appreciate.

 

"Thank you for helping us, Mr. Tracy," Clare offers in a shy voice, punctuating it with a hug. I pat her shoulder, glad to see her safe and happy. "My cousins, Jimmy and Johnny, thank you too. Well they should, at least. Jimmy! Johnny! This is Mr. Tracy, Alan and Gordon's dad. He's the one who helped us."

 

The twins stop kicking at the ball and join my small ones as they walk over. Taking a small hand in each of mine, I shake with both of the boys, marveling at how incredibly alike their appearance is. "I have a 'Johnny' too, son," I advise the younger Johnny, motioning in the direction of my son as he stands at a bit of a distance from the wagon, watching as the officers inspect it.

 

"We met him," Jimmy replies, looking over at John. "He likes Sara—that's the baby. He's nice. Even we don't like her much, and she's our sister. Babies cry too much. But I guess she'll be OK when she's big like us."

 

I can't help but smirk at that remark. I used to wonder if my boys would have felt that way about the sister they never had, the daughter I had always wanted. When my friend from Malaysia recently came to live with us and brought his young daughter in tow, I knew from the way that the boys quickly took to her that they would have been the doting, loving, ideal brothers for an admiring little sister. Lucy and I missed the chance to have a little girl of our own, but that's just one of a myriad of joys we never had a chance to share. Still, I'm grateful for the five little joys we did enjoy together and for the short but wonderful time we shared.

 

"I took the children to church this morning..." It was a moment before I broke away from thoughts of Lucy to realize that Mrs. Fontaneaux was speaking to me.

 

"Oh...really?" I reply, pleased to see her so much more calm than when we'd first met.

 

"I thought I'd take them for a Sunday drive after Mass so they could see Val Verde. It's that vale down the other side of these hills where the camping and picnic areas were. My grandmother grew up over there. In her day, that was the only camping area our people could use, you know. I like for the children to learn something about history, even when they are out having fun. They think all of what I tell them is about old-timey things that aren't important any more, but they need to know about how things were in the past so they'll better appreciate what they have in our day."

 

I take note that John is hanging onto Mrs. Fontaneaux' every word without missing a beat with baby Sara. Nuzzling the infant's cheek, I can just barely hear John speaking to her. "I'm glad that's not the kind of world you're going to grow up in." Better trained than to interject himself into the conversations of adults, he smiles demurely at Mrs. Fontaneaux, nodding an understanding of her words, a thought-filled look knitting his brow.

 

"You sure have some fine sons, Mr. Tracy," Mrs. Fontaneaux says, patting John on the shoulder in a motherly fashion. "Nice, polite and well-behaved boys, every one of them. We have a picnic basket full of sandwiches and I know how growing boys are. Do you think they'd like some lunch?"

 

"No, but thank you," I decline politely, "They've been munching since we left the house, but I appreciate your kindness, just the same. And it's 'Jeff,' please. After what we've been through, I think we should definitely be on a first name basis by now."

 

She laughs and clasps her hands together. "Marie," she replies, "You call me 'Marie,' then. And there isn't enough I could do to thank you for all that you have done for us."

 

After a quick interview with the officers, I am reminded of how much farther we have to travel this afternoon and prepare to leave. Marie and I exchange addresses and telephone numbers, assuring each other that we will keep in touch. Of course, Clare, Scott and Virgil have already beat us old-timers to the punch, with the boys' names and cel phone numbers quickly having been entered into Clare's cel phone's memory and her information into their phones.

 

The younger boys punch each other lightly on opposing shoulders, this being their junior version of a hug or handshake. "See ya, De Jean," Gordon calls out as he waves goodbye, with "See ya, Tracy" as Jimmy's reply. Apparently they didn't get the memo about exchanging first names. Scott and Virgil take their little brothers in hand and steer them back to our van, leaving behind the lone hold-out: John.

 

"Come on, Uncle John," I nudge him. "Help Mrs. Fontaneaux to buckle little Sara into her car seat. It's time we push off to Grandma's."

 

Quickly, his wistful look turns to a slight frown and I can tell he is dreading saying goodbye. As he puts the baby into her seat, I notice a glint of something catching and reflecting the sunlight. It could be a belt buckle, but I can't be sure. A peck on her forehead and John forces himself to leave his new little friend behind, whispering, "Don't forget me. I won't forget you."

 

I put an arm over John's shoulder as we wave goodbye and walk to our van. He feverishly squirms out of my grasp just as I rough up his hair, having let my fatherly pride get the better of me. As he adjusts his sweater, I notice that the chain he normally wears is missing.

 

Seeing the suggestion of a question forming on my face, John stands in place to address me. "I gave Sara my St. Christopher's medal, Father—the one that I won for being the best at Catechism. It will protect her so that nothing like that will happen to her again. This way, someone will always be looking out for her, just like Mom looks out for us."

 

I reach out for this often gloomy, sulky child of mine, this boy who puts up such a front of being untouchable and allergic to affection. He rebuffs my hand and runs to the front seat of the van.

 

"Awwwww, come on, Father—Grandma's going to worry about us being so late!" John calls out, his face trying to create a careless façade that his heart cannot possibly support. As I slide in and buckle up, I hear a protracted sigh from him not intended for my ears as he sullenly puts his headphones on and tunes out the rest of us.

 

Hours later, we are just finally reaching Palm Grove after passing every date tree, fruit stand, farmers market and Indian reservation casino in the state. Along the way, beyond the fading sounds of radio stations as we pass through their varied frequencies, my ears have picked up on my two eldest sons debating the relative merits of NHL goalies and my two youngest sons softly snoring in the center seats. Beside me, I hear the high-pitched, tinny sound of a drummer handily riding a high-hat and bashing a crash cymbal on the same song that's been playing over and over as it leaks from John's headphones.

 

As I pull into Mother's driveway, the boys in the back start to cheer. "It's a good thing we finally got here," says Virgil to Scott, "I think I owe you my allowance until the year 2165!" Oh yes...that.

 

"Scott, give Virgil back his money and whatever else you've won from him or you'll be sitting at the little table on Thanksgiving Day, fighting off the flung peas from your little brothers. Do I make myself clear?"

 

With a shrug, Virgil is returned $23.12, two Cat's Eye marbles and the memory card from his camera. "If I catch either of you betting each other again, you'll pay for it with something much more uncomfortable than empty pockets."

 

A pair of little voices gleefully punctuate that thought with, "You're gonna GET it! You're gonna GET it! Ha-ha-ha-ha-HA-ha!"

 

"That's enough Alan! Gordon!" I bark, knowing how quickly a baby brother's taunting can turn into a full-scale skirmish. And, just as quickly, Alan unbuckles his seat belt and flies out of the van toward Mother's front door, both Scott and Virgil running behind him, ready to do battle. Gordon trots off next, determined to try to rescue his partner-in-crime or start World War III trying.

 

Looking over at the front seat, I realize that John hasn't moved. One call out to him reveals that he has been asleep for Heaven knows how long. "Come on, pokey," I nudge him. "Grandma's going to think you don't love her." Eyes at half-mast, he drops the headphones to the floor and lumbers out of the van.

 

I pull John to my side and, for once, he is too tired to resist. "You know, you were once a darling little baby who liked for your dad to whisper sweet little nothings into your ear," I reminisce as he surrenders to my affection. "Some day in the distant future, you'll be a dad to someone tiny and cute who will love you to do that for him or her, just like little Sara did. Believe me, despite evidence to the contrary, it's nice to be the dad...sometimes."

 

I hold my middle son tightly against me, surprised that his bony little elbows don't attempt to push me away. His chin is dropped to his chest, but I can hear him plainly as he finally gives in. "Yeah, I guess this is all right, too...sometimes."


End file.
